


Valar Morghulis

by ladymelodrama



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventures in the Afterlife, Crack, F/M, Incomplete, Other, S8 was nonsense, lolsob, so is this, yeah I don't know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22198066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymelodrama/pseuds/ladymelodrama
Summary: You know when Arya and the Hound finally make it to the Bloody Gate and the boys tell them that oh sorry, Lysa Arryn actuallyjustfell out of her own moon door. Bad luck. But yeah, thanks for trying, now move along. And Arya starts laughing? That's kinda what this fic is like.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Ygritte, Jorah Mormont & Ygritte, Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen, Lyanna Mormont/Revenge
Comments: 26
Kudos: 39





	1. La Joyous Garde

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this right after 8x03 aired and then never posted because of other distractions. I've written a second chapter which I'll post tomorrow ;)

“What the _hell_ was that?” Lyanna Mormont asks…no, demands. 

She’s in a demanding mood. Death will do that to a person. She’s standing pugnaciously before the Night King himself, as they wait on the gently sloping riverbank of a waterway that will take them beyond these strange woods to whatever lays beyond.

And she’s not amused. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go.

There are others with them. Theon Greyjoy and Dolorous Edd are standing to one side, too afraid to ask the same question but interested in the answer nonetheless. Beric Dondarrion is running a whet stone over his favorite sword to pass the time, as he’s been here before. Many times. And this time, Thoros won’t be calling him back.

Melisandre, the Red Woman, is down by the water, washing her hands free of soot, cinder and battle grime. She’s young again, with no lines on her face and no grey in her scarlet red hair. This time it’s no enchantment. Just plain death.

Lyanna’s cousin, Jorah Mormont, is here as well, but further back from the group, lingering by the old woods from which they’d all emerged, in the aftermath of the Battle of Winterfell. His eyes are fixed on the tangle of brush and branches, waiting. He’ll be waiting there for some time, as he doesn’t intend to continue on until he knows that _she_ is safe. That she made it out alive.

A red-headed wildling girl is waiting with him, with her bow drawn and aimed at the woods. None of them know her by name. She’s been here much longer than the rest of them. She’ll wait as long as it takes. 

But Lyanna is done waiting. She wants answers. She wants to know why the Night King marched south. She wants to know why he wanted Bran Stark. And she wants to know why he let a little _girl_ defeat him so easily.

“You came down from the Frost Fangs to claim the North. You spent _years_ amassing your army of dead men and women. You brought down a dragon and raised it up from a watery grave as your personal mount and you brought down a wall of ice which had stood for a thousand years,” Lyanna recounted. “I sacrificed my life, my men and my _entire_ house to defeat you and your cursed army. And now here you stand, among us, waiting for the same gods _damned_ ferry that will carry us all away to whatever comes next? Explain this to me.”

The Night King is twice the young she-bear’s height but here, in daylight, stripped of his menace, he seems to cower before her. He looks sheepish, maybe even a little afraid of her. She’s still wearing the same battle scars from her fight with the undead giant, her hair is streaked and matted with blood and dirt and her expression is darker than the Long Night.

“He’s defeated, Lady Mormont. Perhaps that’s enough?” Theon tries to interject helpfully. Lyanna gives Balon Greyjoy’s son a sideways glower that rivals the best of her decimated family.

“Best to let her handle this,” Edd mutters to Theon, under his breath. “When her uncle used to turn that look on us in the Night’s Watch, we’d be scraping out the stables for a month. Just let the bear play with her meat. Don’t try to take it from her.” 

Theon lowers his eyes and Lyanna turns back to the blue-eyed, frost-skinned monster in front of her.

“I want to hear you say it,” Lyanna says plainly, demeanor as calm as ever. It would take more than death to rattle Lady Lyanna Mormont. “I want to hear you speak, you cursed thing.”

Melisandre continues bathing her hands in the water, her gaze lingering on her reflection and the youthful complexion she’s regained. But she’s listening too and gives the young woman some advice, despite not having been asked for any, her accent as foreign and mystical as ever, “If you wait on a creature like that to speak, my sweet girl, you will be waiting a long time.”

“I’m not your sweet girl. And time is no concern here, if you hadn’t noticed,” Lyanna states with a little venom, her reply to the Red Woman short, but promising more. She has some questions for the sorceress as well. To show up, as she did, on the eve of battle, to bring unnatural fire with her and a victory that she saw in the flames, seems too convenient. She might have been the true heroine of the story, if no one there knew her history.

If no one in the company remembered the name of Shireen Baratheon.

But they do and so the woman will answer for her crimes. Eventually. After Lyanna forces an answer from the Night King’s impassable lips.

For now, Lyanna only makes this promise to the Red Woman, “Had you ever found your way to Bear Island, my lady…we would have burned you in those flames you love so much.”

With Lyanna’s attention momentarily diverted, the Night King makes a dash for a rickety, wooden bridge spanning the rushing river. He doesn’t get very far. 

With a smooth motion, Beric Dondarrion stretches out his sword blade, tripping the blue-skinned fool, who goes sprawling in the long grass. In his patient, almost casual way, Beric rises and forces the man or creature or whatever he is up to his feet again, grasping the back of his frost-crusted collar roughly and hauling him back to stand before Lyanna.

“Answer the girl,” he breathes against the man’s icy neck. “And do it fast. For there are worse things to fear in this place than death.”

The Night King is breathing hard from the brief skirmish. His hands clench and unclench over and over again, defiance draining and flooding his features by turns. He seems at war with himself, the coolness of his demeanor in life giving way to some sort of madness on the ghostly riverbank.

He closes his blue eyes. His rigid, struggling posture suddenly relaxes beneath Beric’s grip. There’s an ominous drumbeat in the distance, just one. Only one. And when the Night King opens his eyes again, they are milk-white. 

This catches Melisandre’s attention, sharply, finally bringing her up from the water’s edge.

“What’s he doing now?” Lyanna is tired, _bone-tired_ , of these games.

“He’s warging…somewhere,” Melisandre’s tone betrays a measure of confusion. She’s older than the rest of them. Far, far older. And she’s learned some simple truths along the way. Warging is a game for the living. 

She admits, in a voice that lacks her usual confidence, reminiscent of the tone she turned on Ser Davos when she returned to Castle Black after Stannis was defeated in the snow. “But we are far beyond the realm of such things now.”

“Are we?” Beric asks her, pointedly. Of all of them, he knows best how the realms of the living and the dead sometimes collide. Melisandre and Beric share a weighty glance. They’ve both seen more than enough to know they don’t have all the answers. Or even most of them.

The Night King’s lips move, finally, unexpectedly. His eyes, still pupil-less and filmy, turn on Theon Greyjoy.

“Theon, you’re a good man. Thank you,” he mimics young Brandon Stark’s voice _far_ too well. Same cadence, same tone, same _voice_.

Theon’s face goes ashen-white, hearing those words echoed again, wondering how the monster knows them, wondering if... 

Theon swallows hard. Especially when the Night King’s expression, always so unreadable, suddenly changes, suddenly… _smirks_. 

But unimpressed as always, Lyanna takes two steps towards the Night King and kicks him the shin, breaking the spell easily enough. The smirk dies on his lips and his eyes flicker back to blue. 

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re playing at?” Lyanna asks again. 

But the Night King is done casting his lot with those he murdered. Beric’s grip has relaxed again and the monster takes advantage of it, quickly slipping out of the man’s hands and making another run for it.

The Night King flings himself off the embankment, diving into the water like a swan. They all watch as he’s carried downstream.


	2. Shades of Arthur and Elaine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummm, I don't really know why I've decided to use Camelot/King Arthur references in my chapter titles. Look, this whole fic is weird. Let's just go with it ;)

“I’m gonna need you to move the fuck outta my line of sight,” Ygritte mentions to Jorah Mormont, firmly but pleasantly enough. Death has mellowed her. Just a little.

She’s never been heartless. She understands that the man in front of her is anxious, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, waiting for his beloved _Khaleesi_ to appear out of the tangled bramble wood. Perhaps hoping she doesn’t, based on the mumbled words Ygritte’s heard fall from his lips. 

_Keep her safe. By the Old Gods and the New, just keep her safe…_

She gets it. He’s worried about the girl he loves. But Ygritte has been waiting longer. _Much_ longer. And she will likely have to wait longer still. So, he needs to move. 

Waiting is no trouble for the wildling girl. Par for the fucking course. In the battle of impatience and grudge-holding, her grudges always win. Besides, time is different in this place and she doesn’t have anywhere else to be. She’ll wait as long as it takes.

With her bow drawn and her eyes on the fucking prize.

_Jon. Fucking. Snow._

Oh, she’s got an arrow with Jon Snow’s name on it. Carved into the side of every arrow in her quiver. And this time, she promises herself…she won’t fucking miss.

Jorah moves slightly to his left, to appease the red-head. He’s aware she’s angry, based on the mumbled words that he’s heard fall from her lips. 

_You think you can just hold me as I die and we’re square? Oh, you know nothin’, Jon Snow._

They’ve been standing in silence for some time, just the two of them. The others have moved down to the riverbank, awaiting the ferry or bright light or whatever comes next, but Jorah certainly won’t be taking a step forward in this strange, new world until he knows that Daenerys is safe, that she’s protected, that she’s _loved_.

And even then, he’ll likely stay. Just in case. His is not a love that ends at the grave.

Ygritte’s motivations are similar. But only if the word love is exchanged for _hate_.

A burning, red rage. Hate, hate, hate. Her pretty mouth curls on the taste of it.

As soon as Jon Snow crosses over into the other side, he will die. For a third time. And then Ygritte might kill him again. She hasn’t decided yet. No one has ever killed anyone on this side of the woods before. Ygritte is satisfied to be the first.

So _fucking_ help her. She’ll find a fucking way.

“He killed you?” Jorah asks after a few minutes, or hours? He wants to confirm, as they are currently glancing snippets through the woods. The gateway between the world of the living and the world of the dead flickers every once in a while and they catch glimpses.

It's the little moments in scattered time that make him nervous. They can’t see what’s happening clearly but vague impressions pulse through. Snatches of images. Howls of sound. And none of them are of the soothing, encouraging kind. 

Especially the ones accompanied by the hollow, dreadful sound of bells.

“Aye,” Ygritte states, her grim frown darkening even further. Sure he didn’t make the killing blow. But that’s just details. “He might as well’ve stabbed me in me fuckin’ back.”

“But he claimed he loved you?” Jorah has an uneasy feeling that he can’t shake. He was willing to step aside for Jon Snow. He _did_ , at Dragonstone, releasing her hands, giving Daenerys his blessing, even though it ripped his heart in two. But now his regrets are returning. A hundredfold. 

“The bastard lied,” Ygritte seethes, breathing hot against the white fleche of her arrow. “Lied to Mance, lied to me, lied to all the free folk. He’ll get his. As soon as he takes a step over that fuckin’ line.”

Jorah’s jaw moves in a way that draws Ygritte’s attention. She lets her eyes wander from the forest line to the grim Northerner. They are natural enemies—Jeor Mormont’s son and a wildling girl with no love lost on the crows.

No love lost on _anyone_ anymore. Never again. She’ll swear a blood oath if asked.

But she doesn’t have any enemies on this side of the trees. Ygritte has only one enemy. And he isn’t dead yet. That mother-fucking crow died once, stabbed by his own men, and she almost had him. He appeared out of the woods and she was too excited, trembling, letting her arrow go just a hair wide, as it whizzed past his pretty mess of hair and he managed a quick, “Ygritte…?” before the forest swallowed him back. 

That little fucker escaped. And she’s been cursing herself for it ever since.

But as she watches Jorah, she finds her bow arm relaxes just slightly. Mormont’s brow is furrowed in a way that makes her ask, “What is it?”

“Did you see the dagger in the trees?”

“I saw it.”

“If he kills her…”

The words fall off Mormont’s lips like the beginning of a vow and she’s surprised at the force in his steely tone. If Jon Snow touches the silver-haired princess, the bear will be roused. To commit murder. That much is clear. 

“If you kill him before I do, I’ll have to kill you too,” Ygritte states with cheery vehemence. As long as he stays out of her way, they can wait together. She has no quarrel with him. Yet. She stresses, “So don’t fucking touch him, Mormont. He’s mine.”

“Understood, my lady,” Jorah replies gutturally, too intent on searching the trees for answers, or a flash of silver-blonde hair, to care much about which one of them does what needs to be done.

“I’m not a lady,” Ygritte huffs on the title, wondering if he’s being serious, or if he’s mocking her? Her temper flares as red as her hair. She turns her dagger-eyes on him fully then, sneering, “Fucking Mormonts. Your father hunted my people like animals…”

“I’m not having this discussion again,” Jorah sighs. She wouldn’t know it but she’s echoing her kin and Jorah has no energy to waste on repeating himself. Before she can snap a response, he’s changed the subject back to Jon Snow. It always comes back to that pretty crow. “How long did you know Jon Snow?”

“Too long,” she mentions.

“Was he good to you?” he wonders.

“I’ve had better, honestly,” she says flatly.

“I didn’t mean…,” he nearly blushes.

“Yes, you did.” She grins, wickedly.

Jorah presses his lips together and doesn’t argue further, which satisfies Ygritte well enough. She wonders what has gone on between Jorah Mormont and his queen in the land of the living. She assumes more than is proper for Southern sensibilities. After all, Jorah Mormont is tall and strong, with cheekbones that could cut dragonglass. 

_Be still my fuckin’ heart_ , she thinks to herself, a little wryly. If she wasn’t so intent on vigilante justice and keeping her bow at the ready, she might ask the knight beside her if he wanted to pass their time waiting for the other two in a more…procreative way. If only to see the Lord Commander’s son blush as badly as Jon Fuckin’ Snow.

The Northerners were all the same. Stubborn, uptight fools. She shakes her head, still grinning.

After a moment’s silence, she speaks up again. 

“I tried to convince him to stay up north with me,” Ygritte admits, not sure why she’s sharing that particular detail. Her tone is a little wistful, a little poetic, at least for the foul-mouthed wildling girl. She adds, “In a cave where no one would ever be able to find us.”

Jorah nods slowly, commiserating. He replies with similar words, “I tried to convince her to run away to the east. Where no one would ever be able to find us.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I think they’re both gonna regret those decisions soon enough,” Ygritte mentions with a shrug, looking into the woods again, seeing a throne of swords wreathed in flames. 

_And Jon Snow’s fuckin’ tears falling off his pretty-boy face._

Beside her, Jorah mutters predictably, “It doesn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The joy I had in working Rose Leslie's "be still my heart" comment on Iain Glen into a GoT fic knows no bounds 😂
> 
> Oh, and don't be fooled. Ygritte still totally loves Jon Snow. Almost as much as she hates him 😘


End file.
